


For Better and (Mostly) For Worse

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: The Game [18]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Baby BatCat, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Father/Daughter Relationship, Gen, Mob Wars (mentioned/implied), Russian Mafia, Uninvited Guests, Wedding Nights (Round 2), Young Love, wedding celebrations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 21:02:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: "If you can't trust your family, who can you trust?" ~ Author Unknown





	

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own no characters or events related to "Gotham" or the Batman franchise. My original characters and the subsequent plot ideas are all I own. Thank you and good night. :)

Three full boxes of reports, already carried with precarious balance, come crashing to the floor. Papers flutter free. Scatter left and right. Officers jump to attention, hands darting to their guns with full intentions of aiming at an intruder with weapons. Detective Bullock sputters around his early cup of coffee. Several people make uncivilized comments while accommodating the figure weaving erratically through their paths. But the only sound she really hears is her name, bursting into the air like joyful hosannas to the Almighty.

“ _Iris_!!” Edward’s arms are around her without restraint, and he twirls her off the floor for an incredibly pleasant moment before wrapping her in a steady embrace. “Oh, _Iris_! Forgive me, but I can’t help it! Hearing your voice isn’t quite the same as…well, that is—you’re here! You’re here again!”

“I have missed you too, dear friend.” She murmurs, kissing his cheek. The commotion is causing quite a stir in the bullpen—or perhaps it’s the apparition of the dead brought back to life. Who can know?

“Christ, Nygma, pull yourself together.” Detective Bullock grumbles, trying to mop up the mess on his tie and shirtfront. “Acting like a damn fool.”

“Leave them alone, Harvey.” Another voice joins them from the left, and Iris smiles in the face of an equally-missed presence over the past weeks. “Besides, if anyone deserves a lecture, it’s my daughter.”

“Me?” she blinks innocently, but James isn’t fooled. The quirk to his brow and mouth communicates as much.

“You,” he nods, “The one responsible for my two a.m. phone call from a very angry and very drunk Russian. Highlight of my week, Iris…especially when said Russian informs me that my daughter has eloped in the middle of the night.”

“It was hardly the middle of the night.” She scoffs; her head settles lightly on Edward’s shoulder while both arms snake around his waist, disinclined to lose the connection so quickly, and ignores Detective Bullock’s grumbling about “public displays of decency”—as though he is one to talk. “And, really, Papa...no girl in her right mind declines an opportunity to marry in Europe.”

She elects to leave out the prior weeks on the island, before wedding plans ever really came into focus. James doesn’t need to know about that right now, if ever.

James rolls his eyes, but there’s a distinct glimmer of amusement playing across his expression. It reminds her of Selina, two days prior, when (not unlike Edward’s greeting today) she was assaulted by slender limbs and a head of unruly blonde curls, plummeting from what Iris suspects was the fourth story of Wayne Manor, and locking all four limbs around Iris with no given intentions of letting go. Butch, ultimately, had to be the one to extract Selina, for purposes of free movement. All the way home, she was privy to a scolding by her young ward on disappearing for days and weeks, with no warning and no communication. The irony was appreciated in silence, as it is now.

“So…” She flashes James a coy smile, “might I entice you gentlemen to a late breakfast? My treat.”

***

Ed recommends a place down the street— _Joe’s Diner_ , citing excellent sweet tea and cherry turnovers—and they are seated in a window-side booth. Iris doesn’t eat much, which prompts an eyebrow lift on Jim’s part, but she waves off his concern with a comment about not having an appetite. He’s not convinced, but she doesn’t let him question further. She’s already delving into the real crux of the matter, and that’s an entirely different issue.

“I think it sounds wonderful.” Ed says, with his typically atypical cheer, between bites of his turnover. “The evolution of familial celebrations has deep roots, especially in certain cultures. _Quinceañera_. The first baptism for a baby. Why, the birth of a son in certain cultures is grounds for a feast and week-long festivities! I find it quite refreshing to know such traditions haven’t been dismissed with the social devolution and breakdown of the core family unit, don’t you, Jim?”

Jim huffs out a breath. “I’ve no doubt this is all quite warranted, Iris.” He says; personal feelings aside, he can’t deny a certain sense of excitement. He supposes this is how all fathers ought to feel, knowing their daughter is married. “But I’m not sure about—”

Iris cuts him off at the curve. “ _Please_ , Papa.” She implores, with an impressive pout (he wonders, quite against his will, if she’s ever turned that thing on Zsasz). “This is a celebration of family values! The bride cannot have her father absent when he is alive and perfectly capable of attending. It simply does not stand for tradition’s sake—and we both know you do _not_ have a valid excuse for missing it.”

Personally, he thinks her argument weighs a little heavy on the dramatic side. Unfortunately, Ed isn’t helping. Not one bit. The bespectacled man is delving into inquiries about proper attire and fitting topics for dinner conversation, and while it is at least mildly entertaining to imagine Edward discussing the microbiology of atoms and genetic mutations over a roast, this whole thing is out of the question and needs to be headed off at the curve.

“And the groom’s family?” he asks, pleased when the edge of disapproval doesn’t present itself on his tongue. Unfortunately, the question itself manages to undo his attempt at steering the conversation aside. Iris’ pleasant demeanor ripples into a tightened jaw, and a notably disappointed look fills her previously bright gaze.

“Victor’s parents are dead.” She says; it’s nothing Jim hasn’t heard before, but the combined disappointment and genuine sorrow cuts him deeper than expected. “They were killed in a boating accident, when he was twenty-five. Needless to say, he will not be represented with family at this event. I had hoped you might be more inclined to support me in this.”

Ed jumps back on board without missing a beat, and once again Jim feels like the guilty party in ruining an otherwise happy moment. He can already sense Iris’ resignation, the reluctant acceptance that one step forward has amounted to another five steps backwards. And so, on the wings of reckless impulse, he dives headfirst into what might be another disaster in the making.

“What time?” he says, blurting out the question while his better sense is knocked into a far corner. All the same, the joy that shamelessly lights up Iris’ face eases away the discomfort.

“Seven o’clock.” She answers, clasping his hands with earnest. “Thank you both. This would not be the same without you! And do not worry, Papa—Victor has promised to be on his _best_ behavior.”

…perhaps the time has finally come to take up smoking. It might kill him faster.

***

Around the five o’clock hour, Madelaine knocks on the bedroom door. The older woman previously banished Victor, citing the old tradition of not seeing the bride and so on (a moot point, to say the least, but traditions are what they are and Iris will humor them for at least this night), so Iris is alone to answer the call. In Madelaine’s arms, there is some sort of garment cradled safely in a protective covering. She’s wearing a cheery smile and seems in a great hurry to reveal her prize.

“I know you’re not one for all these old traditions,” Madelaine says, still smiling, “but there are some still worthy of honorable mention. Specifically…something borrowed.”

She tugs the zipper down, just enough for a little peek, and Iris feels her breath catch. “Is that…?”

The twinkle in dark brown eyes says enough. “Let us see if it fits just as well, hmm?”

***

The men are gathered downstairs, exiled by the women from all preparations in the manor’s higher levels. Most of them are playing poker in the den; Dimitri is reading to Peter by the lit hearth, and the other brothers are having quiet conversation over some early dinner drinks. Butch was recruited into helping with dinner, and is presently keeping watch over the roast.

Victor, for the sake of sanity, removes himself to the garden. It’s dark, and the air is unseasonably warm tonight. At his side, Shakta has made herself comfortable with a head in his lap and fingers gliding through her fur. When his hand pauses too long for her liking, she nudges her head against his hip. When that fails, he earns himself a swat to the ankle from a no-longer-gentle white paw. It smarts, and equally makes him burst with pride. Those paws bear claws that have ripped into living flesh and carved chunks of muscle free from bone.

“My impatient girl…” he sighs, rubbing the base of her skull with his thumb; she purrs loudly and nuzzles one cheek into his thigh, “Am I going to worry, when you aren’t the center of attention anymore? What will you do when there’s a little sister or brother to tend to?”

A solitary ice-blue eye rolls upward and fixes him with a look. He decides to take the expression for what it is: a silent comment to zip the lip and keep rubbing. It’s rather admirable how little concern she shows for what may or may not come. Perhaps that is the key to life: one day ( _one mark_ ) at a time.

He smiles and resumes the neck rub.

***

Edward pulls outside of Jim’s apartment at exactly half past six; the detective politely declined the offer about five times before running out of viable excuses and Edward declared victory. So, here he is. He made sure to get the car detailed and washed, scrubbed spotless inside and out, before even coming over here. He’s wearing his best and favorite suit: a dark green ensemble paired with a black shirt and white tie (he thought the purple one was too flashy), and shoes to match. He contemplated a hat for some time too, then thought it pushed things over the edge a bit too much and left it in the closet. In the back seat, he has a dark overcoat, for extra warmth and in case it starts to rain. One never knows in Gotham.

Jim comes out the door half a minute later (punctuality really is the man’s best virtue). He looks exceptionally sharp in his black suit, which isn’t, in and of itself, a foreign sight—Jim has been wearing nothing but black to work these days—but the attractive stripe of Caribbean blue down his front looks quite fetching. He settles into the passenger seat, offers thanks for the ride (a small victory, but after all the trouble it took just to get Jim’s agreement on the matter, Edward still permits himself a silent bout of triumph), and then they’re off.

He’d possessed some trepidation that the ride over would be suspended in awkward silence, but Jim seems determinedly in a good mood and makes pleasant conversation. For once, they don’t talk about work. They talk about (of all things) Iris. He’s not sure either of them mean to talk about her so long, in so much detail, but it certainly unfolds as such.

He personally finds it very pleasant. There is still a sting of sorrow, knowing Iris won’t be there when he comes into work every day, and talking about her sparks a rather childish delight; one he’s sure will be nurtured without shame this entire evening.

It’ll be worth it.

***

“Jim!!”

The sound of Bruce’s young voice breaking through the crowd is unexpected, to say the least, but it’s still a pleasant distraction from the way Alexander is trying to ply him with early liquor. The budding billionaire is dressed to the nines in a suit, hair neatly combed, and a broad smile lighting up his face. He strolls forward, slipping between bodies without a care that he’s in the company of Gotham’s criminal elite.

It leaves him to wonder where, exactly, Alfred is. Surely he wouldn’t have…

“—and you must be Mr. Nygma.” Bruce is saying, interrupting Jim’s thoughts, while extending his hand in greeting. “I’m Bruce. Iris has told me about you. It’s a pleasure.”

If Ed’s smile could be any wider, Jim wouldn’t bet on it. He looks fit to burst with delight. Cat with the morning bird _and_ the fresh cream. It’s a little disconcerting—though not as much as the ease with which he promptly strikes up conversation with Dimitri and blends into this crowd like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“So, Bruce…” Jim says, keeping one eye on his colleague while attempting to keep on track with meandering threads of conversation, “What, uh…what brings you here?”

The boy’s wearing a little blush and shrugging one shoulder in a way that distinctly marks his youth. “I have a date.”

 _That_ gets Jim’s attention. “A what?”

“Iris said I could bring a date to the party.” Selina’s purr precedes her by mere seconds, and then she appears at Bruce’s side. Dressed in a sleek red dress with matching heels and made-up like a regular socialite, Jim wrangles a smile in place and makes a note to chat with Iris about letting Selina traipse about in front of strange men like this.

“And my date,” she continues, looping her arm with his, “owes me the first dance.”

Bruce grins and waves a short farewell before Selina steals him away, down the hall and toward (if he remembers right) the back door. They must have expanded the celebration outside, to take advantage of the warm weather tonight. Lord knows, it doesn’t last in Gotham.

Alexander takes him by the scruff and half-carries him to the open bar. Apparently, sobriety isn’t the name of the game tonight.

***

The garden has been transformed for the evening. A dance floor is mounted atop a low platform, spread wide across lush green. There are posts lining the exterior, and each one is elaborately decorated with tiny string lights of pale blue. White cloth weaves above, a canopy of sheer fabric, and there are fleeting moments when Selina thinks it almost looks like snow suspended halfway between heaven and earth.

She wears her hair straight tonight; it’s a change and took nearly two hours to accomplish, but she enjoys the feathery brush of strands against her cheeks. Madelaine told her it frames the features nicely, and gracefully ages her from a young teenager to a young woman. _Young woman._ She likes the sound of it.

There are few people joining them outside (most of the men are getting first drinks at the bar), and no other accompanies them on the dance stage. She could care less. It means freedom to move instead of stand on place and sway side to side. She’s come a long way since the Wayne Enterprises charity ball, and Bruce can either let her lead or learn to keep up. 

It makes her very happy when he keeps up.

The skirt twirls and spirals like fire, loose and free around her legs. The warm breeze coats her skin like a tender caress, or maybe it’s the warmth of Bruce’s hand holding hers. Maybe it’s the surprisingly steady way he catches her after each spin. It could also be the spark of life in his blue eyes with every twist and turn and twirl, or the mischievous grin playing across his mouth. Of course, it could also be the way he suddenly catches and dips her, without warning and with broad delight now radiating across his face.

Her mouth splits in a coy smile. “You know what happens next, right?”

The playful grin on his face flickers, just a bit, and he blinks. He’s confused, and it’s an adorable look. “I…I suppose I should…um, straighten up…?”

A smile turns into a smirk, but she knows it lacks hard edges and wicked humor. He’s too cute (yes, she’ll admit it) for her to not be half fit to coo. “No, silly.” She answers, leaning forward, just a bit. “You’re supposed to kiss me.”

He immediately sports a most fetching shade of rose-pink, even as his eyes immediately dart to her lips. “W-What…?”

One hand snakes up and curls around his nape, for leverage; she pulls herself closer, shifting one foot to ensure balance. The smirk never wavers. “C’mon, Bruce…you gonna make me do everything?”

When he meets her, it mimics their first kiss: it’s more of an abrupt forward movement than an intentional gesture. As such, the first meeting of her lips and his is awkward and misaligned, and his eyes seem frozen open, like he’s checking to see how badly he might have screwed it up. She has to fight the urge to start laughing, only because he looks so petrified of a little kiss.

“Good start.” She murmurs, the affection genuine, and pushes herself upright with a smooth movement. Both arms rope around his neck, and he shivers. “Let’s do it again.”

Iris hasn’t given her explicit lessons on this or anything, but Lord knows she’s seen Iris kiss Zsasz enough times to get some basic ideas down-pat. Bruce sighs against her mouth, and this time, the tension and stiff anxiety is a distant thought between them. When his arms weave around her in return, she feels the soft bloom of warmth again. It feels like even more than a caress this time.

She thinks it might not be too terrible to stay, just like this, for a long time. Maybe even forever.

***

The clan’s women, led by Madelaine, have spent the better part of two hours tending to her. They’ve bathed her in the scents of lavender and honey (she is more than capable of cleaning herself, but…tradition. All for tradition) and combed her hair until it’s a glossy mass of ink-black hanging down her back. Several women speak with admiration, as they weave strands through their fingers and prepare intricate braids. They talk of how thick her hair is, how long it has become. She’ll not entertain vanity for long, but she can’t help a smile. Victor was the first to admire her hair; to lose fingers within its dark depths and watch strands slip free over and over again...

Long and heavy as her hair is, Madelaine is a saving grace to stop the others before they pile it all atop her head (she has a feeling it might break her neck, or at the very least, strain it terribly). She instructs them to weave braids like a crown, and leave the rest. _Like a veil of silk_ , Madelaine murmurs, with great affection. She says it would be a crime to bind it back so tightly.

They highlight her eyes in black: to match her hair, and—more importantly—to bring the vivid blue into focus. The women say it will resemble the mother wolf at her prime, during those nights when the males fight one another for rights to her, but Iris thinks she resembles Shakta. It pleases her. White skin, darkly accented, and blue eyes. _Like mother, like daughter._

One hand discretely settles over her belly, and she remembers whispers of blue eyes and golden curls. A daughter crafted in her father’s likeness. _Please, God, let it be so._ Don’t let their baby ever resemble Maria DeLaine.

Finally, the dress. Her grandmother’s dress. Not the wedding dress, but the same dress she wore to their small wedding reception, in New York’s lavish botanical gardens. And indeed, the gown is fit to be worn in the presence of glorious foliage and flowers of all design and every color. Silver as the moonlight, bleeding into sapphire blue toward the hem; the design preserves modesty with full skirts and sleeves, but like her own wedding dress, the sleeves are sheer lace and the bodice (within the realms of decency) dutifully graces her figure.

For the final touch, jewelry crafted from sapphires and diamonds—“To match your ring,” Madelaine says with a smile. The women fuss over her hem and smoothing out little wrinkles until they’re all satisfied. They insist on escorting her downstairs, like maidservants protecting their queen, and though she appreciates their efforts and their stern upholding of tradition, she doesn’t breathe easy until her eyes meet Edward’s (always a little taller than the average crowd) in the foyer. He steps forward eagerly to greet her, first among the men, and she waves the women away when they try to hold ranks a moment longer. She is She-Wolf, and the women obey.

She reminds herself, in silence, to not get drunk on this power. Even Grandmother was an alpha female, but she had a husband and, as such, knew when to be submissive. A strong leader—a strong _queen_ —knows when to play a firm hand and when to bestow a gentle touch.

“Exquisite.” Edward says, eyes bright with his smile. He kisses her hand like a proper gentleman, then similarly offers his arm. “Might I be your escort outside?”

“I thought you might never ask.” She teases softly. Finally, things feel normal again. She will never set foot inside the GCPD as an employee, never venture past the sergeant’s desk and down the hall to lower levels for purposes of doing her paid job, but for the first time in over a year, she feels the pleasant familiarity of being with those who never saw her as their leader and commander-in-chief. Just a coworker. Just…a friend.

At the bar, she sees Alexander well into what she suspects is not the first drink of the evening. And with him…is James. James, drinking. James, drinking very fast.

Edward obviously notices the look on her face, because he leans close and gives her hand a little squeeze. “Don’t worry.” He murmurs in her ear. “I’m driving.”

***

Madelaine outdoes herself with a lavish seven-course feast, finished with a decadent chocolate dish that provides a taste of heaven. After dinner, everyone is ushered outside while the women quickly bustle in the kitchen, cleaning and putting away leftovers. The children appear to be the only ones left unaffected by such rich and heavy food in their bellies; as such, they take to the dance stage and provide great entertainment. Peter is the shining star, showing off his latest dance moves with musical accompaniment. Some of the other young pups follow, attempt mimicry, but Peter is proving one-of-a-kind. No one seems able to match his stride. Alexander’s laughter is loud and delighted, ringing across the yard. Even James is enchanted, smiling freely, and the heavy burdens all-but branded into his soul seem but a distant memory.

Edward is tucked away in a corner with Dimitri; the two are engaged in quite a conversation—the details of which Iris isn’t aware—and she smiles a little to consider he might have met another kindred spirit of the mind. It isn’t surprising: Dimitri prides himself on being the most learned of his brothers (a trait little Peter is dutifully following). He and Edward are likely discussing great works of literature or debating some theory of science.

From her seat, Iris notes the present and the absent. Bruce and Selina haven’t been seen for some time, sneaking away halfway through dinner and not returning for dessert (she does hope Selina possesses enough sense, or at least common courtesy, to not ruin her dress by leaping from rooftops; it’s a brand-new addition to her wardrobe, and it wasn’t cheap). Victor, likewise, disappeared from the gathering after barely nibbling his meal. She suspects he’s towards the back of the garden, where Shakta prefers to hunt in the evening hours.

“Boss,” Butch’s voice quietly interrupts her thoughts; when she turns and finds him at her left, he’s wearing a notably grim expression that certainly doesn’t belong with these festivities.

“What is it?”

“Need a word.” He says, in the same tone. “Back in the house.”

Loathe as she is to appear a terrible hostess, curiosity commands her and she follows the large man without disruption. Her exit, if noticed by any, doesn’t warrant any questions or concerning looks. _Good._ She’d have it stay this way. Let the others enjoy the party, as they should.

Back inside, Butch leads her to the foyer and keeps close to her side while she surveys their guest with polite surprise. “Gabriel.” She greets; the man isn’t used to the sound of his full name, as his bobbed eyebrows state quite plainly. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your company?”

The other man darts a gaze over her, likely at Butch, shifts nervously, and finally heaves a sigh. “I ain’t here to make a fuss.” He begins, then stops and studies her. She nods, silently, and he continues, “The boss’d like to see you. …Alone.”

Beside her, Butch stiffens, not unlike a dog with hackles rising. She pretends to be oblivious and quietly ponders the request—not that it was phrased as such, but she’ll not nitpick the point—for a minute or two. Gabe doesn’t rush her, just stands there and shifts from one foot to the next. He seems to feel out of his element here, or perhaps he is on-guard for one of the others to appear and take note of his presence. She suspects the latter. He may not be exceptionally bright—though she doesn’t particularly consider him stupid; his knowledge just comes via street-smarts versus books and culture—but he certainly knows his employer holds no favor in this household.

“Very well.” She says; Butch opens his mouth, so she continues talking before protests can be made. “I fear I will be indisposed tomorrow, but perhaps the day after?”

Gabe releases one of the most relieved sounds she’s ever heard, then nods. “Sure thing. I’ll let him know.”

No further words are needed. Butch seems him out the door and halfway down the walk, then returns and gives her an exasperated look. “Boss, are you sure about this?” he asks, without missing a beat.

“Yes.” She answers.

“You’re not seriously going alone, are you?”

Her eyebrows lift delicately. “He requested me to be alone, and I agreed. What does it say about my character if I go back on my word, Butch?”

He doesn’t look convinced, to say the least, but the time for arguments passes with Madelaine’s arrival. She tells Iris it’s time for the women to prepare the bride for her wedding night (past the point, but…tradition. Always tradition). The words take a minute to sink in, and then Iris slowly turns to meet Madelaine’s brown eyes.

“And…” she says, very slowly, doing her absolute best to keep a straight face, “…is the groom also to be prepared for this evening?”

***

He takes complete solace in Shakta’s presence. She settles in the doorway, cleans her paws while he dresses, and only returns attention to him when he’s finished. She looks at the nightclothes—the white, _white_ , set of silk nightclothes—and growls. Inasmuch as animals provide facial expressions, he’ll swear to a fierce scowl on her snowy features, fit to match the growl still rumbling through her throat.

Alexander, slurring every other word, tells him the white symbolizes a virgin husband (Victor barely restrains from cracking his skull against the closest wall at such an insult. _Virgin_ indeed). The silk is simply a matter of quality, to showcase a higher social standing. White, the old bird adds as a drunken afterthought, is also an image of pure hearts. Pure only for the bride, who will also be presented in white.

He wants his knife. He wants his knife right now.

In the following peace and privacy, he takes in their new bedroom furnishing. Someone (he suspects the old bird’s wife) removed the old bed and replaced it with an entirely new piece: crafted from dark cherry wood, four posts towering well above the mattress, and adorned with intricate carvings that absorb shadows into their shapes. The bedcovers are a deep shade of maroon matched with ivory-cream. A canopy of equally dark hue drapes above and pools at the floor. He can think of worse things, but the canopy is just a little much. He seems to remember something about the curtains intended to keep all the romance within the allotted space, and he scowls at the recollection. He has had Iris in bed plenty of times, and the romance hasn’t gone anywhere. _Thank you very much._

Iris is shown in by the little blushing and giggling gaggle. He manages to keep himself composed, but it takes no small willpower. In place of the sultry vixen on their wedding night, she’s a delicate vision in white lace and silk. Her hair is loose and free, but even the lovely vision of velvet black waves isn’t enough to deter from the hideous vision of _white_.

The one small reprieve is—and let it be known, this is enough to make him believe in the Almighty—no “blessing of the marital bed” occurs. The bride and groom have been presented to each other, and now the night begins, without an audience. Iris settles on the bed. Victor marches to the bedroom door, locks it with a firm gesture, and then proceeds to rip clothes off with barely a blink.

Iris smiles, leaning lightly on the mattress edge. “That certainly makes my job easier.”

He flashes a predator’s grin, half a second before careening forward, one knee balanced on the bed, and in doing so forces his bride onto her back. Black hair spills outward, ink stain on velvet, and blue eyes sparkle. Her face is clean of the earlier makeup, and while he doesn’t necessarily mind the black accents, he much prefers this. Natural. Fresh. _This_ is as pure as he needs his bride to be.

A rustling from the far corner lifts her eyebrows, then the corners of her mouth. “Is that Shakta making a bed out of your specifically-selected, steeped-in-tradition night attire, my not-quite-virgin husband?”

He smirks. “She’s such a good girl.”

***

Victor does eventually pull the canopy curtains and encase them within a fragile web of red so dark, so murky in hue, she can’t help but think of dried blood. He makes small adjustments here and there, shutting out the world beyond their bed, and she knows this has nothing to do with honoring tradition. This is a recreation of their first—their one and only—wedding night, where it was only them and interruptions were a thought of the distant past.

He also steals two of silk ribbons—the ones previously binding curtains in place—and plays them between this fingers with a smirk dancing across his lips. She reads his intentions and silently offers her wrists. Turnabout is fair play, after all.

He purrs his way from her pulse to belly, kissing and nibbling the skin as he sees fit. Her nightgown has since been tossed aside (she’s sure Shakta is finding a use for it), and Victor is revisiting well-traveled paths over her naked form with splayed hands and worshipping lips. She shivers when his fingers brush along her right side. His mouth smirks against her hip, and he repeats the touch. The shiver is more pronounced this time.

“So sensitive…” he croons, pressing teeth in place without a real threat (for now), “Where else can I make you quiver for me?”

“Find out yourself.” She replies, with a spark of defiance in her gaze. His smirk only broadens.

He knows where her body falls especially sensitive, the nerves receptive to the slightest touch. He’s found them all before, more than once. She doesn’t need to tell him where to touch, and the game is better when he reduces her to pure need by his own exploration.

And that, once again, is exactly what he does.

By the time he lazily withdraws from between her legs, both hands are clawing helplessly within their restraints. He clucks his tongue lightly. “Now, now, my love…you need to relax. You’ll cut off the circulation, writhing around like that.”

She growls, and when he leans in for a kiss, her teeth catch his lower lip for a deliberate beat. She tastes blood, and the kiss is anything but sweet and gentle. It’s a frenzied gesture, and she elects to stoke the fire a little more. Her legs are free, and she uses them around his hips to pull him closer. His groan resonates against her lips.

“Do you burn, my tiger?” she whispers against his lips. It’s his turn to growl, and then press his hips into her with fire in his gaze.

“Always.”

Her teeth flash with the next smile; he licks the thin smear of blood from his lips, eyes never wavering from her face. Hands otherwise confined, she rolls her spine forward and kisses beneath his jaw. The place itself seems innocuous, but she knows the skin houses a patch of exceptionally sensitive nerves, and they respond favorably when her teeth scrape, nice and slow.

Tonight, she bites. The response, consequently, is quite memorable.

***

When she deems it appropriate to do so, Shakta decides to join them on the bed. Iris comes to her aid when one curtain nets over her face, and avoids a disaster of claws furiously scratching to freedom. Their dear girl is getting much too big for all this cuddling, but she hasn’t broken the bed yet, and Iris highly doubts Shakta could be easily deterred from her intentions. She’s not a trained dog, after all.

She stretches across Iris’ side (a favored spot, since she was a cub), and drapes one leg over her mother’s waist. It’s a behavior she established early on, and translates to silent demands for attention. Should she fail to get it from this position, she will (there is a healthy record to support it) settle between them and simply wait for one parent or the other to bestow affection.

Iris can only hope a human child will not prove to be so high-maintenance.

“So,” Victor says, comfortably reclining against the pillows while Iris rubs fingers at the base of Shakta’s head and elicits amorous purrs in response, “care to tell your adoring husband where you went for fifteen minutes this evening?”

“Mmm,” she smirks quietly, “I do love how docile you are five minutes after tying me to a headboard.” She leans forward and kisses the tip of Shakta’s brow, smiling at the two blue eyes blinking lazily at her. “One might think you as tame as a kitten.”

“ _Mrrow…_ ” thrums against her nape, supplied by a rather smug pair of lips. She rolls her eyes, leans a little into the hand sliding up exposed skin, and finally tosses the cold drops of reality into what was previously a deliciously warm atmosphere.

“Gabriel paid us a quiet visit.” She answers, focusing attention on Shakta—who is now rubbing her chin against Iris’ hip—and doing her best to ignore the way Victor’s hand abruptly stills in place. “His employer wishes to speak with me, alone. I informed him I would be unavailable until the day after tomorrow. Or,” her eyes glance at the clock, “I suppose it is now officially tomorrow.”

“And you told him you would _not_ be attending this little chat alone, right?”

Another sigh. “You know me better than that, Victor.”

His sigh is heavier, and the frustration doesn’t go missed. “Your shameless flirtation with Death is making me a jealous man, Iris.”

“There is no need to react with violence.” She says, now turning to meet an exasperated stare. “If he wanted to make a fuss, he would have done so. He sent one man, alone, to make his petition without guns and without more bloodshed. I have no reason to go back on my word and arrive with a small infantry.”

“No reason, hmm?”

Her eyes fall from his face to chest: the black ugliness of their initial damage is healing quickly, dulled to dark red. But still, they stand apart from his tallies, and the memories lock a breath in her throat for a painful beat. “Perhaps this is all the better reason.” She says, softer this time. “It will not be your blood spilled again.”

“Yours is better?”

She huffs and drops heavily into the pillows. Black strands fly everywhere, including over her face; she shoves both hands through the mess and looks at him. “I gave my word, Victor. I will not build an empire—a legacy, even—on lies and deceit. Doing so makes me no better than Penguin. And it certainly makes me no better than my parents.”

“So I’m expected to let you waltz out the door, unattended, and stroll right back into Penguin’s hands.” He replies, for once unmoved by her being naked and within arms’ reach. “Sounds like a perfectly logic course of action.”

“You make it sound like I do this on base impulse, without any consideration for my family.” Iris whispers. “…Without consideration for you. Or my promise to you.”

Finally, he doesn’t have a snappy response. He holds the silence, and only speaks again after he’s slipped fingers between hers and is studying their entwined hands with an uncommon air of serious deliberation. When he does speak, it’s barely a whisper. “You will not die. Not until it’s time.”

“By no other hand.” She affirms in equally soft tones. The hand in his grasp ascends to her lips, without protest, and she kisses each knuckle with reverence. “Only these hands. Only yours.”

He takes advantage of the proximity, spreading fingers to graze her lips and cheek with eyes studying each move. Then, in the same whisper, “Which of us courts Insanity more frequently, my wife?”

She presses a lingering kiss to his palm, twice, then nestles her cheek within its cradle. “It was you who first introduced us, my beloved.”


End file.
